


Dangerously Close to Friendship

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: Of neither Sea, nor Shore, nor Air, nor Fire [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 18:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18674845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Melisande is lonelier than Arthur will ever admit, but thankfully, Mysaria doesn't care about differences in rank anymore than Merlin does.





	Dangerously Close to Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur—Melisande, clouded leopard  
> Merlin—Mysaria, banded mongoose  
> Morgana—Galeren, lion tamarin

“Oh, gods, I think I can feel my brain turning to pudding,” Arthur groans, pushing away the stack of crop reports he’s been looking over; yes, the kingdom depends on the harvests to get through winter, but have mercy, he can’t stand reading the damned reports. When he gets no response, he glances under the table at the spotted form lying beside his chair. “What are you down there thinking so hard about?” Arthur asks, reaching down to scratch behind his dæmon’s ears. “You’re not normally so quiet.”

Melisande turns her head up to appraise him with her dark ochre eyes. “Did we ever…play? With others, I mean? I can’t recall now,” she says, sounding unwontedly solemn about it.

Arthur blinks. Of all things he’d expected her to ask…. “I…I imagine we did. At some point. We did with Morgana and Galeren,” he replies, through that hadn’t lasted very long. Melisande had settled soon after Morgana’s arrival, and neither of them had liked the way Galeren had stroked her fur and cooed at her, calling her ‘pretty kitty,’ which had prompted Melisande to remind him that pretty kitty could _bite._ “Why are you asking about this now?”

“No reason,” she answers, affecting an air of unconvincing indifference.

He spins the quill between his fingertips. “The squires?” he asks.

Two days before, they had checked on the progress of the squires; most of the time, he left them in the hands of Sir Bors, but he thought it prudent to observe them every now and again. And he remembers how after they’d gone through their forms, before being dismissed to their normal duties, they’d acted like normal boys, getting in wrestling bouts and throwing mock-punches as their dæmons chased each other around.

“We never did that, did we?” Melisande turns over one paw and studies her footpads.

No, they hadn’t. As children, the other boys were mindful of the fact that Arthur was their prince, and he’d always been envious of the carefree way they were around each other but not him. Even now, during some of their sparring matches and tourneys, he knows that some of the knights aren’t going full-tilt against him. He looks down at her mottled back. “We’re a bit old to be playing with squires now, Meli,” he says quietly.

She lays her head down on her paws. “Yes, I suppose so.”

He can feel her quiet despondence, but she doesn’t speak of it again. When Merlin comes in, however, she lifts her head slightly. Arthur ignores Merlin today, still looking over the harvest reports; some of the border provinces aren’t producing as much, and he wonders if there’s damned raiders from Odin’s kingdom again. Maybe he should send a patrol there, see if there’s something going on.

Melisande doesn’t shift from her usual spot beside his chair, watching Merlin go around the room, gathering up the laundry with his usual chatter. Usually, Mysaria perches on Merlin’s narrow shoulders, but today, she’s darting around on the floor, humming loudly and tunelessly. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” Melisande remarks as the other dæmon careens past for the third time in under a minute, small feet pattering across the floor. “And I’m getting dizzy watching you.”

“What are you gonna do, stop me?” Mysaria asks without missing a step, doing wild zigzags through the legs of the table and chairs.

“I might.”

Coming to a skittering halt in front of the leopardess and sitting up on her back legs, Mysaria laughs, the sound loud and boisterous to come from such a small body. “Yeah, right. Don’t know why anybody’d be scared of _you,”_ she taunts. “I mean, look at you. Pretty little kitty like you, I bet you couldn’t scare a pigeon. Hell, I bet _I_ could thrash you.”

Merlin goes still, and Arthur’s gaze cuts sideways towards the dæmons.

“You talk big for such a small ferret,” Melisande remarks, sounding distinctly amused despite the insult. Her tail begins to flick back and forth.

“I’m not a _ferret,”_ Mysaria protests indignantly.

“No? Then what are you?”

“Don’t rightly know, but I’m not a ferret. If I’m a ferret, then you’re a moggy.”

Melisande rises to her paws. “Bold words, little one.”

Rather than be cowed, Mysaria almost gets more excited and begins hopping in place, her tail fluffing out. “I wasn’t scared of Yara, I’m not much scared of you,” she shrills back.

Melisande swats at the smaller dæmon, but quick as anything, Mysaria darts out of the way, circles around, and nips the tip of Melisande’s tail in her sharp white teeth. Hissing, she whirls on Mysaria, only to have the little pest dart out of reach, cackling with glee. “You’ll have to be faster than that!”

Melisande gives chase, and the two go sprinting around the chambers wildly, weaving between the legs of furniture. For something so small, Mysaria is damnably fast and makes hairpin turns to keep herself just out of reach, all the while giggling madly. On the next pass, Mysaria twists around and scrambles up the bedpost, making a leap onto Melisande’s back. She presses all her claws into the leopard’s thick fur, clings tight, and shrieks with delight as Melisande twists and writhes trying to dislodge her.

Managing a particularly agile twist at the shoulders, Melisande catches the end of Mysaria’s fluffed-out brush tail in her teeth and flings lightly her to the ground, immediately catching the other dæmon between her paws. “Give up, ferret,” she laughs, pressing down with her forepaws to keep the little pest in place.

“Never, and you can’t make me, moggy!” Mysaria shrieks, her claws scrabbling ineffectively at the floors as she tries to wriggle free.

“Oh, can’t I?” Lowering her head, she takes Mysaria’s tail in her teeth—gently, of course—and dangles the other dæmon upside-down from her jaws, immediately resulting in loud protests from her captive, small legs kicking wildly.

“Put me down!”

Melisande chortles between her teeth. “Apologise, and I’ll consider it.”

“Never! Moggy!”

Suddenly Arthur’s voice cuts through their laughter, _“Melisande.”_ She turns her head to see him staring resolutely at the tabletop, his grip on the feather quill so tight the shaft has bent. He’s very pointedly not looking anywhere near his manservant, who’s clutching a basket of washing tightly, pink all the way up to his ears. “Merlin has duties to attend to,” he grits out between his teeth.

Reluctantly, she lowers her head and sets Mysaria down. In a flash of striped fur, Mysaria clambers up Merlin’s side and is once more in her usual place on his shoulder, tucked up against his neck. Still blushing six shades of pink, Merlin practically bolts form the chamber without waiting to be dismissed.

Melisande sighs and lopes back to the desk, lying beside Arthur’s chair.

“What in the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” he hisses, nudging her with one foot.

“Having fun.”

His irritation prickles along her fur like ants. “Dammit, Melisande, you cannot just play about with anyone’s dæmon like that. What if someone had seen?”

“What of it?” she grumbles mutinously. “It’s not like anyone else around here has the nerve to have fun.” She scratches at the leg of the table with her claws, ignoring Arthur’s disapproval itching inside her head. Mysaria’s fur smells good, she thinks, sniffing at her forepaws. Like kitchen smoke and Gaius’s medicines. It’s an unusual mix, but a pleasant one.

 

“You’re trying to get us killed, aren’t you?” Merlin hisses under his breath as he strides down the corridor, gripping the basket to his chest so hard it’s uncomfortable. “Forget about everything else, you’re going to send us to the headsman yourself.”

Mysaria snorts in his ear and doesn’t dignify that with a response, her tail curled under his chin.

“I’m serious. He’s the prince, we can’t just—oi, are you listening to me?”

She’s not. She’s thinking about how very soft Melisande’s fur is, and how gentle those sharp teeth had been. It’s nice.


End file.
